Chapter 52
CHAPTER
FIFTY-TWO
The words sent a chill down Natalie’s spine. Was Jonathan paranoid? Or did he know something—something about surveillance, about the danger she was in, about whatever was really happening?
Natalie glanced at her bedroom door. Hudson was down the hall. Her father was in his study. Dimitri and the security team were positioned throughout the house.
She was surrounded by people, yet she’d never felt more alone.
Finally, she typed:
I’ll try. But I’m staying at my father’s house. It might be difficult to get away.
He responded right away:
Please try. This is about more than just business rivalry. I think your father is in danger. And you might be too.
Natalie read the message three times, her pulse quickening with each pass.
I think your father is in danger.
Did Jonathan know about Sigma? About the investigation? About the chemical weapons?
Or was this something else entirely—some threat she didn’t know about yet?
She typed before she could second-guess herself.
I’ll be there. 2 p.m. Coffee shop on Granby Street.
Thank you. And Natalie? Come alone. Don’t tell your father. Don’t tell anyone.
The message made her stomach clench. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone.
Every instinct she had screamed that this was a bad idea. Meeting someone in secret when people were actively trying to kill her. Sneaking away from her father’s security. Not telling Hudson.
But what if Jonathan really did know something? What if he had information that could help her understand what was happening—or prove her father’s innocence?
She set the phone on the nightstand, her hands shaking slightly.
Tomorrow at 2 p.m. The coffee shop on Granby Street. Alone.
Natalie pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
This could be a trap. Jonathan could be working with whoever was after her. Maybe he was the person after her.
Or it could be exactly what he said—he could be trying to warn her about danger.
She had no way to know.
Should she tell Hudson about Jonathan’s message? He’d want to know. Would probably insist on coming with her or sending backup or analyzing every word Jonathan had written for hidden meaning.
But Jonathan had said to come alone. Had specifically told her not to tell anyone.
And part of her—the part that was tired of being protected and managed and controlled—wanted to handle this herself. Wanted to make her own choices, take her own risks, find her own answers.
Even if those choices might get her killed.
Natalie glanced at Jonathan’s messages one more time.
Tomorrow at 2 p.m.
She’d go. Alone. She’d hear what he had to say.
And she’d decide then whether she’d made a terrible mistake.
Hudson’s phone buzzed again. Colton.
Couldn’t find any security images of Brass from Ravenscroft’s office.
Hudson frowned. A dead end.
But if that had been Brass, maybe he had the resources to erase any camera footage of himself.
He pulled up a photo—this one showing a detailed cargo list for one of the Zephyr containers. The items were listed as industrial chemicals, individually legal but collectively suspicious:
Methyl phosphonyl difluoride. Isopropyl alcohol. Diisopropylamine.
His blood ran cold. It was just as they’d thought—and feared.
Those weren’t random industrial chemicals. Those were precursor compounds. Ingredients that, when properly combined by someone who knew what they were doing, could create VX nerve agent.
And Brass would know exactly how to do that.
Hudson typed rapidly:
It’s just like we thought—Zephyr containers carrying VX precursors. Arrival window matches Critical Mass timeline. If Brass is alive and involved, he’s the cook. He’s the one who can weaponize these compounds.
Colton’s response came quickly:
If Brass is alive and working with Sigma, he’s not just an asset—he’s the key piece. He knows how to properly synthesize and deploy nerve agents.
Hudson looked at the photos again, seeing them with new clarity.
This wasn’t just about stopping a shipment or preventing an attack. This was about stopping someone who’d once been his brother-in-arms, who’d supposedly died three years ago, who apparently had been working for the enemy this whole time.
Or had he?
What if Brass hadn’t died? What if he’d been captured instead? Turned? Recruited by Sigma when he was at his most vulnerable?
Or what if—and this thought made Hudson’s stomach churn—what if Brass had been working for Sigma all along? What if his death had been faked, his three years of absence all part of some long-term operation Hudson couldn’t begin to understand?